


All the King's Horses

by Ahigheroctave



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Tudors
Genre: F/M, Multi, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahigheroctave/pseuds/Ahigheroctave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the ripe age of sixteen, King Henry Tudor set his wolfish sights upon her (Or how Sansa survives the Tudors).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the King's Horses

She married him because, at the ripe age of sixteen, King Henry Tudor set his wolfish sights upon her.

Sansa had accompanied her father, a Protestant priest, to attend Court under the grace of the King’s new spiritual practices. Or that was how the letter had read. As soon as she set foot inside Whitehall Castle, she knew that the letter was not the jovial request as it had sounded but an order intended to lead her here. She knew men thought her beautiful. The Lords back home in Suffolk had scarcely hid it from her, falling over themselves to share a dance with her or to help her out of her carriage. She knew as soon as she gazed upon Charles Brandon that it was he who made the mistake of uttering her name – probably in an attempt to sway the King from his temptress of a wife – before he had a chance to think better of it. The way he averted his eyes during her entrance was answer enough to her suspicions.

Her mother was a Catholic sympathizer, a widely known and loved one. She had once been a dutiful Pope-loving daughter to Lord Tully of Warwick before she had found love in her marriage and adopted a new faith, although it had been more or less placed in Eddard Stark rather than his reformed God. 

Sansa realized that they meant to make her the center of a coup to reclaim England for the Pope as the King leaned in to kiss her hand. She might have been flattered, if it hadn’t been for the lecherous look in his eyes. Next time she would have be more specific when she prayed to God for a Prince to come and take her away on his white stallion. Perhaps it would have been better to pray for mother to look the other way so she could sneak out to the smithy, like Arya always had.

“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Stark,” His breath was heavy upon her hand and his eyes pierced her skin as they traveled from her sharp, beautiful face and down to the curve of her smooth, milk-white bosom.

She smiled carefully at him, looking upon him in the slight bashful way she always saw mother gaze upon father. “The honor is all mine, Your Grace,” She lied through her pretty white teeth.

She moved on to Brandon before she could see the way his highness face lit up at her falsehood. “And Charles,” He kissed her hand, tentatively, as her gaze had turned her cool upon him. “I cannot tell you what an absolute _pleasure_ it is to see you again.” She did not miss the way he swallowed as she walked away, her maid, Jeyne Poole, falling into step behind her.

:…:

When he took her hunting with him, she felt as if it was she who was being hounded rather than the foxes.

“I think you would look even more radiant draped in a lovely fur.” He let his eyes linger too long upon her before he caulked his gun, taking aim.

She had flinched as he pulled the trigger.

:…:

Before, she would have written to her brother Robb.

She would write to him when he was fostering with the Greyjoys, complaining that a boy had looked at her longer than was proper. And he would gallop furiously until he was home beside her, where he would pick the offending boy up by the scruff of his neck until the only thing he could breathe was his acquisition that he would never, ever look upon Robb’s sister again. And long after her beloved brother had left, the boy would never so much as turn in her direction again in fear of his life.

It would not be so easy now.

Robb had gone against his father’s honor and broken his betrothal to a Frey girl in favor of marrying for love. And, worse yet, he had gone and done it under the pretense of religious freedom, earning himself the support of the king. He had masked his cowardice in breaking the engagement as a ploy to get away from the Catholic daughter of the devout Lord Walder Frey; as she would have surely poisoned the mind of any children they might have born with nonsense about the King not being the closest being to God, but the pope.

Sansa could not begrudge him, as she liked her new sister, Jeyne, a great deal. Although the girl was quiet and unsure of herself, she was as sweet as honey and it was quite clear from the way Robb looked upon her that he truly did love her more than anything else within their earthly world, and possibly beyond it. And since she had recently quickened with her first child, Sansa certainly could not be selfish enough to write Robb and plead with him to come to court and get himself beheaded by threatening the King. She could not ask him to have his lands be taken from him, for his wife and unborn child deemed traitors. She would not write to him at all, as there could be no other outcome if he found out someone had been infringing upon Sansa’s precious honor.

And so instead she held her quill in hand and penned the words “Dearest Jon” on a sheet of parchment for the first time.

:…:

Her lady mother would have been livid if she could have seen Jon Snow, her father’s bastard son, draped in black furs and looking more unshaven than ever, arriving into the King’s Court.

Several maidens stood by the side, whispering and giggling. It had been made no secret to her that both Jon and Robb were exceptionally handsome men. At home, everyone from the Ladies to the wenches had made it abundantly clear. She had always seen it more in her fully blooded brother, with his glossy rings of reddish brown hair and Tully blue eyes, but perhaps it had been too long since she had last laid eyes upon her half-brother. He stood a full head taller than she remembered, and seemed broader about the shoulders. His thick, black hair had grown even longer and it seemed to soften the frown lines that framed his face. His eyes seemed sadder somehow, although she had not thought that possible. Jon had always been rather sad, although he sometimes displayed the briefest flickers of happiness amongst Arya or Robb.

As he approached her table though, bending his knee, an uncharacteristically large smile played upon his face. “Lady Sansa,” She felt the King’s eyes narrow at him across the room and feared for him for a moment. “It has been too long since I have seen you, my sister,” He greeted her with a hug, as if reading her mind. And for once, she felt grateful for the embrace of Jon’s warm arms rather which has always disgraced her as she had as a child.

“Jon,” She returned, surprised at her own loving tone as she said his name. “I have missed you much more than I realized, it would seem.” His grin faltered, as if he was unsure whether to be insulted by the half-slight or warmed by the partial compliment. “It is good to see you again.” Again, his face softened to her.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the Gardens,” He gestured to a nearby exit. “As I have not been invited, strictly speaking.” No, she supposed he had not, but she could not expect the King would protest at her bringing more family here as it strengthened his resolve against her leaving. As it was, her father had been wary to let her stay on alone when he had been called home to the Winterfell Estate. Bran had unexpectedly fallen whilst climbing earlier on that month. Only Sir Baelish’s insistence he would look after her had caused her father to relent his protests, under the stipulation that he would return for Sansa once he was prepared to travel more comfortably.

“Yes,” She stood, and she saw his eyes widen at the height she had grown to. “I should quite like to see the beautiful Tudor roses,” She hoped her smile was convincing as she curtseyed her goodbye to the ladies, taking her brother’s arm and heading outside.

“They are all green with jealousy of you,” Jon stated in a whisper as they walked. From other men, it would have been meant as a compliment, but from him it was just a fact. There was nothing flirtatious or proud behind it.

“Then let them become the King’s mistress,” She felt her face harden instantly as they left the palace walls and its prying eyes, trodding out onto the empty grounds. “I would gladly switch places with them if it meant not being gawked at and slandered in Court. He already has one whore queen, and I do not mean to become his second.” She kept her voice low, she knew that whilst Queen Anne was not particularly beloved by the people of England, or the King himself at the moment, that any number of courtesans relished the thought of reporting opposition of the marriage to his Grace in exchange for a title or some unjustly taken lands.

“Has he taken your maidenhead?” She had never heard Jon raise his voice before and was touched that he would be so angry on her behalf, but she did not enjoy the idea of him running his pretty sword, Longclaw, through Henry and she shook her head quickly.

“He has not been brazen enough to ask…yet,” She explained, falling instep beside him. “I believe he still hopes that the Queen shall bear him a son and I will not be necessary. Charles told me the other day he means to make me a Lady-in-Waiting to the witch though, to keep me here at Court after father returns for me.”

“Do not speak of it,” He shook his head, leading her to the far corner of the grounds.

Her heart leapt. Sansa had been offered the hand of many a men back home, though her father and mother had always refused such betrothals thinking that she was too young for marriage. If it was the King though, they would not have a choice. He was slimy, this self-imposed head of the Church and England, he would have Ned Stark’s head chopped off in the name of God if it meant the difference between Sansa leaving for home or becoming his mistress, or so she believed.

“Do I have a betrothal?” The corners of her brother’s mouth barely twitched, but for Sansa it was all the answer needed. “Is it Loras Tyrell?” Loras was a Knight of the Garland, and he had given Sansa a gorgeous rose as a favor, though the joust had been a few years back. She had not seen him since, though she had held out hope that he might approach her father. Especially upon seeing his sister, Margaery, at court and hearing her tales of their lovely estate, Highgarden. The castle was described as being made of marble, with shady courtyards and gardens as far as the eye could see. And the music! Apparently there was a harpist at every turn and everyone’s voice sounded like magic. Oh, how she longed to go and leave this most horrid of places!

“I am afraid he is stuck in a rather…complicated betrothal to Cersei Lannister.” Oh, she had imagined marrying Loras was very unlikely, he was such a handsome, kind soul and a brilliant knight that he could not have waited forever for her to return from court.

She thought on it a moment before she realized who he must have meant. “Oh Willas then,” She had never met Willas Tyrell but she had heard a good deal about his interest in her. Apparently he had once laid eyes upon her at a wedding in the North, though she had never looked upon him, and become infatuated with her. He had offered himself up to her father, who had turned him down, in spite of his respect for the man. Apparently he had suggested forsaking her dowry, he had been so taken with her.

She had heard, from Jeyne Poole, that he had a bum leg and knew him was a great bit older, but she did not mind. Willas would be kind to her, presumably patient due to her age. He might even forsake the bedding a few years in his eagerness, she hoped. She would rather part with her maidenhood on her own terms, either way, which seemed more than enough right now. “He will be a suitable husband, I should think even mother would approve,” She smiled slightly, trying her best to be happy within the news. Still, she could not help but wring her hands nervously, she never thought she would marry a cripple.

“Sansa,” He spoke her name so softly that she looked up from her lap and into his eyes. “Mace Tyrell will not let any of his sons marry you, I am afraid.” Sansa’s heart sank, she and Margaery had become such good friends. She assumed that her father would have been happy to have her in his family, after his all daughter’s praises.

“But why?” She could not keep the edge of hurt out of her voice as she asked him, she was so disappointed and confused.

Jon cleared his throat and looked away from her a bit, “It seems Margaery has told him of your…how shall I put it? Your value to the King.”

She felt as if someone had set a fire within her veins. “But she was my friend!” She had been so kind to her, even when all the other girls were so cruel and mocking of her. She had walked with her along the grounds when all the supposed ladies had been too busy mocking her and whispering ‘maitresse-en-titre’ at her when her back was turned. Why would she have gone against her so suddenly? Had she just been a typical Tyrell, eager to ally herself with a politically powerful player? “I told her I had no interest in becoming his…play thing! She knew and she-”

“She did not tell her father anything like that, Sansa,” Jon’s hand fell softly upon her arm and she felt herself calm slightly. Still, she did not understand. The Tyrells would be lucky to have such a connection! The Starks held a much greater power in this game of thrones than their house ever would without them. Although, they would certainly try, she mused. “Lord Tyrell has informers at the Court, Margaery intended to have you married to one of her brothers. She and her grandmother, the Lady Olenna, fought a great deal for your cause but he confronted her about his suspicions. And once she had admitted that His Highness had you within his sights, Mace refused to interfere and risk his influence, even after father spoke with him.”

Sansa’s heart swelled with pride, “Father spoke with him on my behalf?” Ned Stark was a man of very few words, he held his honor and his religion tightly to him but not much beyond that. And when he did show his fondness, it was usually to Arya, who would rather be off play-fighting with the butcher’s son, than to his older daughter. For her last birthday, he had given her a doll and she had berated it, saying she had not played with dolls in years. Yet she kept it, because it was a rare thing to get a gift from her father that her mother had not explicitly picked out.

Jon smiled slowly at her, nodding slightly, “He offered to give up Bran to Margaery, and tried putting half of Winterfell down as a dowry in exchange for your safety, but the man would not take it.”

Her happiness leaked out slowly as she realized that even with her father’s support, she was stuck here. There had been no-one willing to marry her, quite a reversal of fortunes she had never counted on. “I shall have to become his mistress,” She tried not to let the heartbreak seep into her voice but did not succeed. Now that Margaery had gone, all the girls here were quite cruel to her. The Queen herself upturned her nose whenever they were caught in the same room together, ice falling into her voice when they were forced to speak. If the King would not be the death of her, Queen Anne surely would be. She would have her sent away like Lady Mary, locked off in some lesser palace like a prisoner rather than a lady.

“I have found you a match.” And yet, Jon did not look approving as he did when Willas had first offered her his hand, or even have that sly look he wore when Robb had announced he would be breaking his betrothal to marry Jeyne. Instead, he looked as if he had failed her still.

“Who is it?” She asked, quietly, scared to meet his eyes.

He turned away from her, looking out from the perch they were upon and onto the gardens. For a moment, he did not answer her, just sat there – still as a statue - looking out on the castle grounds, and Sansa thought he might have forgotten she was there. But then, he had looked back out of the corner of his eye, and spoke in his low, even voice, “It is Tyrion Lannister.”

“The imp?”

:…:

She was unkind to him upon their first meeting.

He rode for days to see her, bringing with him his siblings, Cersei and Jaime, as well as his niece and nephews. The King’s jaw tightened upon their arrival but he knew better than to voice his displeasure. Tyrion’s nephew, Joffery, was just below Lady Elizabeth to inherit the crown as his father, Lord Robert Baratheon, had been of York blood. And given King Henry’s current state of affairs, many favored him more heavily for the throne than a daughter whom half his country believed to be illegitimate.

Despite the kind smile upon his face as he laid eyes upon her, Sansa could not help but cringe as she watched his brother unseat the dwarf from his horse and settle his feet upon the earth. He strode towards her slowly and she felt the practiced smile that had become so familiar to her claim her face once again. She could feel the King’s mocking grin from behind her as Tyrion kneeled before her and she was forced to bend her own back slightly to offer him her hand.

“Lady Sansa,” He greeted, taking her small hand but not moving to kiss it, for which she was grateful. His voice was not unpleasant, deeper than she had imagined. She had never met a dwarf before, only read of them in books, and she had not known what to expect of him, still did not.

“My lord,” She returned, studying his face. He had blond hair, but it was not the gleaming gold of his handsome brother, Jaime, or the pale white of his nephew. Instead, it seemed tinged with red, and curled in all directions upon his head. She was not sure if this was a result of the wind from riding or if he had just been too careless to brush it. His eyes, though kind, were mismatched. One of them was a glittering green and the other a dark black, they stared back at her as she looked upon them, taking her judgment with a quiet acceptance she had not foreseen. There was a violent scar crossing his face which she had anticipated to some degree, but in person it is more red and gnarled than she had pictured from the descriptions. Most of his small nose was also missing – she assumed from the same injury – causing his face to look oddly flat. His mouth seemed unscathed but she could not completely tell as it was half-covered by a mangled beard of gold and black. His arms were short and his fists seemed rather swelled. Though many a man had fairly short arms she supposed, but his legs were terribly stubby. She tried not to change her expression looking upon them, but it proved a difficult task as she thought that soon she and her virtue would be forced to share a bed with this man.

Or perhaps monster was a more apt term.

As soon as she was finished discerning him, he spoke again, this time more softly to her. “My lady, perhaps we could walk the grounds a bit and have a bit more privacy,” A laugh came from Joffery, which he did not even pretend to stifle. She noticed Jaime put a hand on his arm and the boy stilled. “To get to know each other better, of course,” Tyrion amended, with a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

Sansa tried to remember her mother’s words, her urges of kindness and good manners and her ladylike responses to even the cruelest jokes about Jon’s maternity. However, she could not summon her mother’s good temper upon her this day. Instead, an icy grin splayed upon her small mouth. “I shall not my, Lord,” She spoke evenly, if rather flatly. “It has suddenly become rather,” She paused slightly, “Cold.” She let her eyes play discriminately up and down his form as she said the word. “I should not want to catch a chill, or anything else for that matter.” 

There was more laughter and she did not miss the sadness in his mismatched eyes at her response. Still, he did not react unkindly to her slight. “Of course, my lady,” He said, quite defeated. “I would not wish you to become sick so close to our wedding.”

“Yes,” The King came forward and clasped his shoulder, with a leering grin at Sansa. “Heaven forbid you should have to delay it.”

Sansa’s heart pounded as she looked to the ground, hard as ice beneath her feet. Winter was coming and she did not wish to be left out in the cold, forced into Henry’s furs to keep her warm. “No, Your Majesty,” She answered softly. “I should not delay the ceremony for anything in the world,” She watched as Henry’s eyes practically bulged from his head with unspoken anger. “I wish to marry Lord Tyrion as soon as possible.”

And with that, she gathered her skirts and walked back towards the palace, head held high as Jeyne followed briskly behind her. 

She did not, however, overlook the small grin on Tyrion’s face as she made to leave. Or miss the quiet words mumbled beneath his breath, “Lady Stark, you may survive us yet.” She struggled to keep a genuine smile off her own face as the doors were held open allowing her entrance. Perhaps this makeshift marriage would suit her better than she had dreamed.

:…:

Her parents made the journey to Court soon after Bran woke.

Her brother was forced to stay behind, as they had not yet found a comfortable way for him to travel in his new condition – the physician they kept at Winterfell believed his fall would not permit him to walk again, though her mother has not accepted his diagnosis. They had also left behind Little Rickon, who was still confused and tender-hearted from worry.

Sansa loved her younger brothers very much, but it was not their absence that upset her upon her family’s arrival. Even as she clung to her Lady Mother, received a fond pat from her father, and a half-hearted jest from Arya, her eyes had scanned the party for a familiar head of messy red curls. And when she had found it was not there, her heart had sunken greatly.

She knew that her good sister was now too swollen with child to travel safely, for being on horseback in her condition could cause the babe to come early and be born sickly or, worse, malformed. Still she had held out hope against her good judgment that her favorite brother would come to her, his trademark grin spread upon his face as he would spin her around in his arms as if she were still a little girl, and not grown almost to his height. She knew it was for the best, and that her father had probably convinced him to stay home with his wife to keep from letting his hot temper bubble against the king, thus earning him a spot in the Tower. Still, she could not help the way her heart ached at his absence.

Arya did not allow her to be desolate for long though. “They say there is to be a joust for your wedding, is this true?” Her sister stared at her seriously and Sansa found herself laughing, unaware of how much she had missed her sister’s abrupt manner. Jousts were about the only court festivity that the young girl enjoyed, although it was for the violence and not the hope of a winning knight asking for her favor, as it was for most girls her age.

“I suppose it might be,” She smiled wryly at her.

“Mother will not let me compete,” Arya informed her with a sour scowl. “Even though Jon had a sword forged for me.” She did not miss the unhappy twinge of Catelyn’s lips at the statement. Still, she followed Arya into the castle listening to her jabber on about the teacher father had hired to help her learn how to use the blade properly and how soon she would be the greatest knight in all of England, if only mother would let her forget her sewing lessons.

“Father and Gendry agreed that I should have armor, but Mother refuses unless I pay for it out of my own coin,” She stated disapprovingly as soon as their mother was out of ear shot, while showing Sansa the skinny little blade called Needle she kept tucked by waist. “Gendry said he is going to make it anyways and I can help him in the forge and then pay him with all the coin I win in tourneys.” A small smile crept onto her sister’s face and Sansa nudged her playfully.

“What?” Arya demanded, scowling again.

“Lady Mordane always did say you had the hands of a blacksmith, I suppose you might as well marry one,” She teased her sister. Of course Arya would not dream of a knight of flowers like most young girls did, she did not need anyone to protect and coddle her.

“I will not marry that bull-headed bastard boy,” Her cheeks grew red too quickly for her protests to hold much weight though. “I will not marry anyone! I shall be too busy fighting dragons and winning wars!”

Sansa let the subject go, as she’d lived long enough to know when her infamous temper was about to rear its ugly head and it had been too long since she had seen her to deal with such unpleasantness. Instead she told her how Loras Tyrell was rumored to be coming for the tourney, which had caused quite a stir because he was contested to be better than the King himself.

The next morning when they broke their fast, though, Arya went to grab an extra roll of bread and Sansa saw a steel pendant hanging from her wrist. As she fixed her eyes on it, she realized it was a clumsy depiction of a wolf, the same one that rested upon the House Stark sigil - about as good as an apprentice smith could be expected to make. She cast her eyes down on her porridge before Arya could catch her staring and do something stupid like throw it down the castle’s well.

:…:

She was sitting in the garden a few days later, in a quiet sunny spot near its edge, with her handmaiden Shae when he had approached her. If she had heard him coming, she would have quickly found some reason to excuse herself back to her chambers, but his small stature had allowed him to escape both her sight and hearing. By the time he was upon her, he was already speaking and nothing could be done without being unforgivably rude.

“Lady Sansa,” He said carefully, as if he had been rehearsing. “I know it was not your wish to marry me," There was such a sadness in his eyes that she almost wished to interject and say it was not true, yet not quite. “I am not a sought-after man, I’m afraid. My father has been trying, and failing, to find me a good match for quite some time. I do not mean to force you into this wedding and if you feel your hand is being forced, I shall go to the King myself and tell him I wish for a different betrothal,” He met her eyes with this and she felt she might scream at the understanding, the pity that she found in his mismatched irises. “I think it would please him greatly to release you from me.” Her stomach sank at the thought.

“I think you have misunderstood, My Lord,” She forced a smile upon her face, felt the hollow eyes she’d worn so often in Henry’s presence overtake her. “I asked for the betrothal myself, didn’t my brother Jon tell you so? I was eager to marry you.”

“Do not lie to me, Sansa,” Tyrion shook his head and took a seat on the blanket next to her, and she tried to hide the way she flinched away in alarm. “You know that I am malformed, scarred, and small…” A curious look fell upon his face, she realized he was not angry with her but himself, “I know I am no Knight of Flowers that you deserve, I am afraid our almighty King has deprived you of that with his want for flesh.”

“You should not speak of the King-” She began, looking around nervously.

“I will speak the truth of him so long as there is no-one around to hear me. He is a glutton and a fool and he has taken a beautiful little dove like yourself and locked it away in a cage because he wanted it for himself, the man is a mockery of the throne. If my malicious nephew was not our other option for the crown, I would gladly lead the cause to overthrow him myself.” Sansa could not help but smile at him then, no-one at court was zealous enough to speak the truth about the King, no matter how he deserved it. They were all too busy trying to get closer to his bosom.

“No, I did not wish to marry you,” She admitted after they had sat in silence for a moment. He nodded in solemn acceptance of her truth. “I had hoped to marry one of the Tyrells, or even one of the Spaniards, perhaps the Martells, but none of them would have me. And I wished to become the King’s mistress even less than I wished to become your wife.”

He laughed deeply at that and she found herself laughing along with him. “I know I am not a handsome man Sansa…but I am generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. I…” He stuttered a moment before looking at her, she could see the resolve harden in his eyes. “I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some…somewhere.” He took her hand lightly within his and, unlike before, she did not feel the urge to pull away. “I could be…I could be good to you.”

He stared so intensely at her that she could no longer look at him, but for the first time it was not for the scars on his face or his crooked, incomplete nose but the unfailing hope in his eyes. The hope of someone who wanted so much to be loved by someone, anyone. She did not know that she could promise him that, she was not good at loving things, especially not broken things. She was so broken herself, after all.

“Perhaps, milord,” It was all that she could give him. She could not honestly promise him anything more.

“Sansa, call me Tyrion, please,” He stroked the back of her hand gently with his thumb and she nodded, still not looking at him. She could feel his smile though, as he stood and left her. She thought she saw Shae grin at him as he made his way back across the gardens though, and she wondered vaguely what the girl was so happy about.

:…:

The ceremony took place in the late spring. Her mother dressed her and Arya in the same dresses of green, and Arya complained, tugging at the neckline as if willing it higher up and threatening to wear her boots underneath out of spite. The whining soothed Sansa’s nerves and she felt as if they were home at Suffolk for a moment, at just another Winterfell feast in which Arya would be dragged off for throwing her potatoes or would sneak off to the stables when her mother wasn’t looking.

“I shall never be married,” Arya scowled and Catelyn laughed at her daughter’s wrinkled, squished face.

“You are a Lady of House Stark,” Ned smiled at her, stroking his younger girl’s hair. “You will marry a high lord and run his castle. And your sons shall be knights, princes, and lords.” He smiled, kissing her forehead.

Arya shook her head and Sansa watched as Ned’s smile faltered, “No. That’s not me.” And with that, she gathered her skirts and headed out of their chambers. Sansa felt her face flush with anger at her sister, but for once it was not for being unladylike or acting like a boy, but because she could refuse betrothals and ride horseback and shoot arrows like their brothers and no-one, not their father, their mother, or the king himself would ever be able to force her to stop. She would go off and live with the wild Scotsmen first. And Sansa could not, because she was as beautiful as her sister was horse-faced, and because she was a gentle, sweet lady who could not refuse her parents anything.

Her jealousy was interrupted by the touch of her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “It is time, my love.” Sansa nodded mechanically, as was the duty of a good daughter, and stood herself up. She looked in the fogged mirror in front of her, her hair was braided delicately with cloth. She had sat for hours as her mother had worked her hands gently through it, weaving the ribbon gently through it, her hands nimble and quick as she weaved the braid into a strange Southern bun. It was gorgeous and the Queen, grateful to have Sansa out of her court and no longer making trouble for her, had given an emerald pendant to wear. It was so heavy that it choked the breath out of her, almost as much as the tight boning of her corset.

She nodded at her reflection, the shell of the beautiful, hopeful girl who had come to court and made her way towards the chapel.

:…:

Her father stood at the doors with her as Arya and Jeyne Poole walked the chapel before her. She felt tears prick her eyes, but she swallowed them instantly. If she began crying, she did not think she would be able to stop, and she would not give His Highness the King the pleasure of seeing her misery. It would be hers and hers alone.  
Ned threaded her arm in his and took her hand, squeezing it in his own. Sansa looked up into her father’s cold blue eyes and saw warmth there, the kind that was almost solely reserved for her mother. “If you are unhappy, we will find another way. It is not too late, I am not afraid of the Lannisters and I will keep you safe from the King.” He looked delicately upon her, reaching up his other hand to stroke her cheek. “He will lose interest, find another, more-” She heard the break in his voice. “Maybe none more beautiful than you, Sansa, but more willing.”

She felt the happiness brimming within her and smiled sadly at her father, “He will not, half of his want for me is from not having me for so long, Father.” She could feel his anger bubbling beneath his skin, and she rubbed a hand on his arm soothingly. “It is not so bad, marrying Lord Tyrion. He will be kind with me, patient, where other men would not be. I could have been wed to one of the Freys who would expect a brat named Walder for every passing year.” She saw the relief edge across her father’s face and wondered if this had ever been an option. “I could…I may grow to love him, as mother did with you.” She knew in her heart it was a lie, that she could never look on Tyrion with the same devotion and adoration as her mother gazed upon him. She knew though, that her father needed to hear it, need to believe it, in order to take the steps forward into the chapel.

:…:

It was custom for only the woman to wear marriage rings, symbols of devotion that stated it was the wife who was, in the eyes of God, owned by her husband and indebted to him, never the other way around. And as Tyrion gently placed a thin golden ban with a miniature image of a lion on her finger, she did not mind, but then she felt her sister tug at her skirts.

She looked behind her and saw Arya held a matching band of silver, with the shape of a wolf upon it. As the small brunette pressed it into her hand, she hugged her sister to her. “Ooof,” Arya groaned into her side. “It was Jon’s idea, not mine.” She knew from the shape of the wolf, the exact match of that on Arya’s pendant, that her sister was a liar.

She turned back to Tyrion and found him smiling, “You do not mind, my lord husband?” She could not help but grin.

He held out his hand jovially and accepted the little wolf on his finger gingerly. The priest, a bit taken back, simply stared at them. Tyrion gazed back up at him with a chuckle, “Are you not to declare us husband and wife now?”

The priest fumbled with his good book and announced that God had formed their union and that Lord Lannister could kiss his new bride. Sansa watched the man, waiting, but nothing else happened. Suddenly she felt a tugging at the bottom of her dress and looked down to see her new lord husband, blushing.

 _He cannot reach me,_ she realized, and felt a flush upon her cheeks. She had overlooked this, she had been so worried that he was to bed her this evening, worried about his short, mangled form lying beside her without clothes that she had not though that…he would not be able to kiss her properly without her help or a stool.

Suddenly she was so angry though, that she wished not to lean down. She was Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, why should she be forced to kneel to her husband on her wedding day? Why should she be forced to wed at all? He pulled again on the skirt of her dress but she stood tall, she knew he was embarrassed but then she had been as well, giving up her life because King Henry had desired her for a whore. A laugh came from the small crowd in the chapel, and then another, she could feel Tyrion’s eyes boring into her but she did not bend.

“Sansa,” It was her mother’s voice that broke her of her reserve. Her mother, who had expected to wed her father’s brother but instead ended up like her, with a stranger in her wedding bed. She had been in her very place so many years ago.

She bent to her knees, Tyrion simply pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, as not to embarrass himself further and allowed her to rise again. She turned toward the crowd, allowing her lord husband to take her hand in his. She looked down at him and saw that he had already forgiven her for her slight, before looking out into the benches again. For the first time that day she saw Henry, his face sour and angry as he gazed upon her and Tyrion, her heart stopped as she caught his eye and then she immediately turned away.

“It is alright, my lady,” Tyrion whispered at her side, tightening his grip on her hand. “It is over now, he cannot harm you without breaking the law of God.” She nodded, though her veins still felt icy. “Now let us go and feast and forget the unpleasantness of the past.” He led her towards the doors to the applause of the chapel.

Sansa was not soothed though, perhaps the dangers of the past were now behind her but there were new opportunities for unhappiness looming in her direct future.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously Tyrion's "I could be good to you" speech and Arya/Ned's exchange is plucked directly from canon. I decided not to kill Ned off because having Sansa be the daughter of a traitor would put Henry in a position of power to basically do whatever he wanted with Sansa, and negate the purpose of the story in essence. Also, I like Ned and killing him off would be difficult for me to write in what is already a depressing story.
> 
> Yes, there is also a lot of side Arya/Gendry without even a Gendry appearance, I just can't help myself with those two.


End file.
